his upper lip.
He was not perhaps a man’s man and certainly was not destined for kingship. He was small, slight in the shoulders, and perhaps also slightly plump.
So he was not strong, but he never made a false move. He would nip up the side of an elephant unassisted, barefoot. He strung and sprung the crossbows, not by brute force, but by knowing how to stroke things into place. He made the weapons work by loving them.
Yes, he was a good soldier.
The old sergeant saw him scamper up a balding beast, finding footholds in the creases of her skin. The old sergeant approved of this lack of wasted motion, for he had served under generals who moved by sheer force. Without this neatness, they sometimes lacked strategy. They would march you into a swamp of blood. You survived, but your comrades had been opened up to the sun, transformed into abandoned corpses that only the floods or scavengers would remove.
The old sergeant saw the Prince tuck himself into the howdah. Again, he did it almost invisibly. If you blinked you would miss him doing it. The old sergeant saw him look up, and under his black lip, his white teeth suddenly glowed. Life warmed the old sergeant’s heart, he who had seen so much death. The old sergeant followed his gaze.
Oh, ho ho, it was the Lady Jayarajadevi who had caught his eye. It was a young man’s fiery heart seeking what it needed. Oh yes, there was competition among these young hawks, these young elephants.
Still smiling at beauty, the Slave Prince turned, dipped at the knees and pulled his young training partner up into the howdah.
Responsible. That was another thing a commander needed to be. He needed to know where his men were and who they were, who needed help, who needed to be chastised and beaten. His young partner was willing but unsteady. The Slave Prince did not mock him or complain that his partner was dragging him down. His job was to make the most of his young partner, and he did. He pulled his apprentice up onto the platform and steadied him on it.
And then he glanced again at Jayarajadevi. Oh, he aimed at the stars that one.
‘’Sru, who is the short fat one?’ asked Jayarajadevi.
‘Oh, you know him,’ said Indradevi, her sister. Her Khmer name was Kansru, which meant Well-Shaped. The sisters nicknamed each other ‘Sri and ‘Sru.
‘No I don’t.’
‘You do, ‘Sri! He is a great favourite of the King. He is the one they call Slave.’
‘Oh yes. So that is him.’ Kansri did not quite like the knowing look in her elegant sister’s eyes. ‘’Sru! Careful.’
‘His father was a Buddhist,’ said Indradevi. ‘His father and his brother are now dead, so he is in name a little king. Only, he doesn’t seem to be bothered about being consecrated or taking a title.’
‘Perhaps he is showing indifference to the world.’ Jayarajadevi Kansri meant to be mildly sarcastic. Indradevi was always looking out for her.
Indradevi pretended to take her seriously. ‘I was wondering the same thing.’
The sisters held each other’s gaze and suddenly both started to laugh. ‘We all must look to our futures,’ said Indradevi Kansru with a gentle, teasing smile.
‘Look after your own! I only asked who he was. I did not recognize him because of the moustache.’
‘You only like him because of the moustache.’
Jayarajadevi saw how it looked to her sister. ‘It does give him the air of a holy man, and it is foolish of me to think that. But then I am young and foolish.’
‘At least he looks like a man who does NOT regard women as if they were elephants.’
‘Fortunately some great princes are beyond our ken.’
‘For … tune … ate … leeee,’ said Indradevi Kansru and rattled the tips of her fingers on her sister’s arm. Between themselves they called some of the highest princes in the land the Oxen. Among them, Yashovarman.
But oh, even the Oxen were beautiful young men. They wore their princely quilted jackets, all gold embroidered flowers, and were finely built and swift of movement. That gave low pleasure but also higher pleasure. If lotus flowers were a symbol of divinity for their colour, their form and their life, then surely the same could be said for beautiful young men?
Though the lotus had the advantage of not trying to be beautiful, or being arrogant about it.
Kansri had indeed heard of the Prince who called himself Nia. She wondered why this favourite of the Universal King would do himself such an injury as to be named after the lowest category of slave. He could be consecrated as a little king and take a noble title, but he still called himself Hereditary Slave.
Jayarajadevi Kansri knew why she would give herself such a name. She would do it to show that the titles of this world were meaningless, that compassion was owed to the lowly.
Was it possible that in this palace of warmongers there was a man who would give himself that name from the same motives? Possible that he would regard slaves as being worthy of attention, simply other souls trapped in samsara? How wonderful it would be to find a man with whom you could talk about such things, who would take such thoughts and man-like turn them into solid facts.
Such a possibility. A dream, like the cloud-flowers that everyone hoped to see and never did.
So this happy prince – and he does smile beautifully – helped his younger comrade up. He was neat and quick; and he explained so patiently to the little boy about the double crossbow on the beast’s back.
He pointed out the weapon’s thick arms and showed how to pull them back. He made it look easy. He guided his charge’s hands and together they pulled back the nearest bow. Then he nipped out of the howdah down into the bamboo cage that clung to the side of the beast.
Jayarajadevi Kansri heard the sergeant cluck his tongue. The old female elephant trotted forward, creased and whiskery like a granny.
The little one in the howdah was having difficulty. He wavered as he pulled back on the bow; he wobbled as he knelt on the platform; he squinted into the sun. The Slave Prince half stood, balancing on the bamboo struts of the cage and encouraging the boy.
The little boy looked cross. The elephant’s motion jostled him. The crossbow veered dangerously.
Without warning the bolt sprang forward, as long and heavy as a spear. It plunged deep into the elephant, just where the rounded dome of its head met the hunch of its neck.
The old female screamed, and broke into a charge. The Slave Prince pulled himself back into the howdah.
Some of the Oxen roared with laughter. Jayarajadevi Kansri sent tiny blades out with her eyes: oh it is so funny to see a beast in agony. Oh it is so robust to laugh when someone might be killed!
Bellowing, the old female stumbled into the high fluttering banners, scattering category people. She dropped down onto her knees and shook her head as if saying no, no, no. The sergeants ran to secure her again. The howdah jerked from side to side. The Prince grabbed the boy’s hand and turned to jump
